Innocence
by Saw-Is-My-Life
Summary: He could only stare at Sam's shredded, bloody jacket. At his matted, snow covered hair. At his seemingly peaceful expression. At his small, motionless body. Dean screamed.


The Winchester boys had never been very good at showing affection. The moments of brotherly love were rare and few. Especially when both were at the age where reputation _mattered_ and there was no time for hugs or 'I love you man's.

Sam, at the young age of fourteen, was busy studying and 'finding himself'. Friends were lifelines, even the few awkward ones he managed to make for himself, and there was no time for heartfelt words with his ass of a brother.

Not that Dean was particularly keen on the idea either. He had much better things he could be doing, like flirting with cheerleaders and taking his dad's car out for a spin while no one was looking. Sam was just _there._

Conversation between them was civil…while John was around. Other times, they made fun of each other or didn't talk at all. Often, the musty motel was silent, aside from the small black and white t.v that always seemed to be on. And more times than not, the brothers ignored eachother's presence entirely.

Yet, despite the big show both boys put up, it was obvious they loved each other. Neither brother would ever admit that their sibling meant the world to them. No. At this confusing age, not on their lives. There had been a number of occasions when an 'I love you' had been right on the tip of their tongue- but they had bit it back and laughed it off in fear they would be mocked.

Dean bent over and placed his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. He coughed, the frigid air having made his throat irritated and itchy. Tightening his grip on his favorite sawed off, he yelled over his shoulder.

"Sam, come on!"

Looking ahead of him, Dean could vaguely make out the shape of his father running through the trees. Why wasn't he waiting? Could he not tell that his sons had fallen behind?

"_Sam!_ Dammit, come on!"

Swallowing, Dean stood up straight. Where was Sam? He turned around and searched the path behind him. The fourteen year old couldn't be _that_ far behind…

"Sam?"

No answer.

"_Sam!_"

And as if stuck in place, he looked down the path they had come from and then at the trees his father had long since disappeared behind.

"Dad, Sam is…"

Like he could hear…probably too far away by now. He cursed under his breath and ran in the opposite direction in hopes of finding Sam. To find his fourteen year old kid brother who was _stupid_ enough to fall behind, or worse, get _lost_ in the forest. In the middle of the _night_. In the goddamn _winter_. During a _hunt_.

_Crunch. Snap. Crunch._

Dean made no attempt to quiet his footsteps as he tore through the frozen growth. Twigs snapped effortlessly under his feet, and at the moment, he didn't care if that damn Wendigo heard him or not.

He needed to find Sam.

Blood pounding in his ears, Dean leaned, exhausted against a nearby tree. Brittle and bare, having lost all its leaves to the cold. He winced at the pain in his chest every time he took a breath and muttered something about the 'goddamn winter'.

Then, out of the corner of his eye he spotted movement. Something orange, fluttering in and out of his peripheral. Slowly, finger stiff and ready on the trigger of his shotgun, he turned to see what he was sure would be the Wendigo itself.

Frowning, Dean lowered his shotgun and walked through the thick snow to the deceiving piece of cloth catching the wind and flipping about wildly. Feeling only _mildly_ ridiculous, he knelt beside the fabric- and then his heart dropped.

Sam's jacket.

As if the below zero weather wasn't cold enough, Dean felt his blood run colder. He brushed some of the newly fallen snow off of the garment and then went to pick it up, muttering under his breath about how _stupid_ Sam was, and how he was going to get his ass chewed out when Dean found him. It was _way_ too cold for him to be running around without a jacket- he made a small grunt of annoyance.

Tugging a bit harder, Dean attempted to get the article of clothing free from whatever it was holding it down…and then he saw hair.

God. Oh God. Oh _Hell_ no.

Dean could only stare at the light chestnut hair blowing from beneath the hood of Sam's jacket. He couldn't move. Sitting there, the look of pure terror on his face and Sam's sweater clutched tightly in his trembling hand. Excuses. Stories. 'What if's. So many lies he told himself over and over. Anything to distract him from the truth. 'It's an animal', 'It's some leaves', 'It's…not Sam'.

Then, growling, Dean gripped the jacket and flipped it over, trying desperately to ignore the amount of effort it took. And again, he could only stare.

_Stare_ at Sam's shredded, bloody jacket.

At his matted, snow covered hair.

At his deathly pale skin.

At his cracked, blue lips.

At his seemingly peaceful expression.

At his small, motionless body.

Dean screamed.

Sitting up straight in his bed, the eighteen year old looked about his room frantically. He blinked a few times and then tried to calm his racing heart with slow breaths. A dream. A goddamn _fucking_ dream. He was home, in bed. Not in the forest. Not on a hunt with his father and Sam.

_Sam._

Dean clambered out of his bed, struggling, and finally managing to kick off the covers that were trying their hardest to hold him back. He ran through the hall, feet pounding loudly against the carpet as he sprinted his way to Sam's bedroom.

The older Winchester had never prayed. Ever. He didn't believe in 'God'. To him, there were humans and then there were evil sons-of-bitches that needed to be killed. You lived, and then, if you were lucky, you took out a few of them before biting the dust yourself. There was no heaven, and there was no _'God'_. But now… with his sweaty hand clasped tightly around the doorknob to Sam's room- Dean found himself praying. Holding his breath, he opened the door.

Relief flooded through him as he heard the familiar sound of Sam's even breathing. Silently, his previous panic gone, the older brother found his way to Sam's bed in the dark. As if to be sure that his ears were not lying to him. Then, careful not to wake him, he slipped under the covers.

Even in the faint light from the billboards outside of their window, Dean could see Sam's sleeping face.

Peaceful. Warm. _Alive_.

Suddenly filled with grief from the nightmare, still fresh in his mind, Dean took Sam into his arms and held him tightly against his chest. At the moment, he didn't care if his sibling awoke or not… Sam murmured in his sleep, but did not wake up. And, much like a small child seeking warmth, huddled closer to his brother, oblivious to the world around him. It was soft, comfortable, and Dean had never been so happy to be this close to his brother.

Sam had always been just a minor annoyance, a job, and a royal pain in the ass. Sure, Dean loved him, but sometimes it was only because he _had_ to. Family had a funny way to working like that. Family was annoying, embarrassing, and always there… Never once had the thought of Sam dying crossed his mind.

Not even with their 'field of work'.

Images of Sam's small, broken, and bloody body filled his mind and Dean instinctively held him closer. He wouldn't let it happen. Dean pressed his nose into his sleeping brother's lightly tangled locks and sighed.

Then, with the courage he knew he could not possibly posses while Sam was awake, Dean murmured a single phrase, breaking the thickly settled silence.

"I love you."

Sam shifted in his sleep.


End file.
